La Derniere Fois

Sitting in the midst of suitcases, bags and a growing "donation" box, the reality of moving back has firmly arrived. I will say, this week has been punctuated by emotions ranging from denial to anxiety about airline luggage regulations to honest glee at the notion of seeing familiar faces to concern over reverse culture shock to excitement about a new job.

To be honest, at times its been a bit harder to process than I had anticipated. In the end, however, the call of home is still the most powerful emotion. France still has magic for me, but its become a bit ordinary—a sure sign it is time to leave. I haven't craved a pastry or even steak tartare for some time.

When I'm not obsessing over luggage or some new emotional swing, though, we are also attempting to do things for "la derniere fois" or "the last time". This week, we've eaten at three of our favorite restaurants, visited the Louvre, walked along the Seine, had several goodbye lunches with people, went shopping, had our last meal at home (cheese, boudin blanc, rillettes, and a good bottle of wine) and still carved out some time for sleeping and packing.

One of the most special moments of this last week, however, was my last cooking lesson (for now) with Iris. Over our last few gatherings, Iris and I were making a list of a few French recipes that I hadn't yet cooked, but the one that intrigued me and I didn't feel like I could leave without knowing was Pot-au-Feu—essentially a boiled pot of meat and vegetables that is elevated to a place of honor at the French table.

Iris sent me a shopping list which included: three marrow bones, "1 kilo plat de cote avec les os, 600 Gr de jarret de boeuf, 600 Gr de gite-gite en un seul morceau." I will say, it felt like a final exam at the butcher. With the exception of the marrow bones, which I had heard about but had not yet purchased, I wasn't familiar with a single ingredient. The list was essentially a mixture of beef that is fairly inexpensive and is at its best after several hours of cooking (think French pot roast).

My butcher seemed happy to help, knew exactly what I needed and I felt like it was a final French victory for me. The day with Iris was lovely and our Pot-au-Feu was really tasty. Throughout the day, we talked of cooking techniques, laughed a lot and she even gave me her mother's Poule-au-pot recipe, which was essentially like the beef dish, but for chicken. I made the chicken dish on Sunday for some friends and I can honestly say I leave with two more French standards in my repertoire.

But aside from a few last French recipes, I've also taken some time to ponder this question of returning. In one of the rare moments of honest anxiety about returning home, I went so far as to look up on the Internet, "How to cope with reverse culture shock." Wikipedia even has a fairly extensive section on the various stages of adjustment and coping strategies. The one part that I found particularly fascinating and odd though was "Culture shock manifests itself in different ways. Some symptoms include changes in diet and sleeping patterns and an increased need of hygiene." Increased need of hygiene? It almost begs for a French joke, but I suppose only time will tell if upon return to DC, I find myself needing to shower excessively.

But for now, there is certainly no time for excess showering. Bags need to be packed and a small but important list of last minute tourism still awaits. Josh and I plan on spending our last day doing "the death march", which most of our visitors experienced to some degree their first day here. It’s the tour that goes from our apartment, to the Mosque for tea, to Notre Dame, to ice cream at Berthillon to a pass by the old city wall—and a few other stops if our legs still can keep going. It’s the trek we did on January 12, 2007 and it feels exactly right to use it as a book end on February 1, 2008.

And so, this is my last post from here. Thank you for giving us a forum to rant, brag, process and report on our adventures. I suspect there will be at least an entry or two upon our return, if I can find time between my many showers and the reality of life that awaits. I also know Josh has a few last posts up his sleeve, so if you aren't bored with us, there are a few more chapters in the wings. But for now, this is Sara Gibson signing off from Paris.

A bientot,

sPg

Savoring

Last night I had a dream that I was eating tete de veau et son cerveau ("head of veal, with his brains--which I have had one other time and was quite tasty). The most interesting thing to me was, in my dream, I was not surprised/displeased to be eating that dish, but I was angry at the cost—it was 30 euros!

They say that you really know a language when you begin to dream in that language. But I wonder what it means when clearly specific cultural references come into play. I was as disturbed by the menu as the fact that it was euros, not dollars, and that was in my REM sleep. Maybe it really is time to come home.

With the end of our stay nearly in view and the beginnings of actual preparations for a return to the states well underway, I find myself soaking in small interactions here again—just as I did in January 2007—and marveling at the many small ways that I've come to better understand France and its complex culture.

Today, I took the usual trip to the market for dinner things, and despite the rain that was steadily falling, I almost felt giddy with appreciation. The market was nearly empty—it was a bit before Parisians were through with work and it was rainy enough to chase any tourists away—so it felt like it was me and the vendors. I even tipped my umbrella and received a real smile from my favorite butcher.

I stopped first in the poissonnerie (fish shop) and picked out two perfect pieces of salmon for dinner, then splurging two doors up at the fromagerie for one of my favorite cheeses (fresh cheese with a fig filling), then continuing up the hill to buy my demi-baguette.

I did some version of this walk in January 2007, but now, armed with approximately 17 more words of French and a few well-learned lessons in French culture, the street has lost all of its intimidation yet kept all of its charm. Though it sounds silly, it feels like a real accomplishment, especially when I recall the literal cold sweats that greeted my first solo trip the grocery store. (http://hisandhersparigi.blogspot.com/2007/01/q-and.html)

We've started to be asked the question: are you ready to come home? Yes, is the short answer. Paris has been a dream in 1,000 ways, but its not quite home and I don't want to be an expat. I am also increasingly aware that my French doesn't cut the proverbial mustard for the long term. I am looking forward to seeing familiar faces and I'm even ready to work again. It’s a bit like the song from the TV show Cheers. "Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you came." I am anxious to return to coffee with "The Girls" and having family a brief car ride or short plane ride away.

But in other ways, it will be a sad trip to the airport in February. I am reluctant to say goodbye to this time. I am sad to think about saying goodbye to my favorite fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens and the many French friends who have become regular parts of my life here. I am worried about all of the usual "return to life" questions of work and life and balance. The reality of trips to the gym, commuting and potentially long hours will replace the Paris reality of fresh baguettes, a light workload and fascinating bilingual and even trilingual conversations.

We still have time, however, and I am not bidding "au revoir" until the last possible second. I still have time for at least 3 trips to the Louvre, 26 bakery runs, 14 trips the butcher, 53 coffees, 3 trips to Notre Dame, 1 glance at Sacre Coeur and at least 10 bottles of wine, by my rough calculations.

Still savoring each second,

sPg

Of Corsican!

[If you're horrified or disappointed by this photo, skip ahead to read Vignette Three, then start again at the beginning...]

Can I seriously be posting a blog entry on our Christmas travels two weeks late? Of Corsican!

I think Sara did a great job of summing up the spirit of Corsica in general and of our trip there in particular, so I think I'll just stick to a couple of vignettes. And please keep in mind, dear readers, you read this blog for the wacky and entertaining, not for fawning "it was so beautiful," "we felt so at home," etc. It was a fantastic vacation, one of the best I've ever had, but the crazy bits make for better blogging. Oh, one more note--most of these photos don't necessarily go with the vignettes, some of them are just ones I wanted to include.

And now on to the vignettes...

VIGNETTE ONE
Before heading to Corsica, being the OCD guy I am, I kept e-mailing our “gite” (rural lodge/hotel) asking detailed questions about how to take the once-a-day bus from Ajaccio to Guitera-les-Bains, our 65-person village. Every time I wrote, they'd provide the information I'd asked for, but they'd gently remind me of their previous suggestion that I call when we got to Ajaccio because someone from the village would likely be able to come pick us up. So, imagine my surprise when I called the gite upon our arrival in Ajaccio and was told, sheepishly, that no one was free to come get us, and that a better option might be...hitchhiking. Across Corsica. With our suitcases. In the rain. Two days before Christmas. In the end, we decided to spend our first night, as opposed to our originally-planned last night, in Ajaccio. And the gite did set us up with door-to-door rides to and from the airport in the end.

VIGNETTE TWO
One omnipresent companion on our Corsica trip: guns. I haven't seen so many guns in one place...since the last time I visited the in-laws. Seriously, there are lots of guns in Corsica. When the guy who was driving us from Ajaccio to Guitera showed up to pick us up, Sara went to get in the back seat...and had to move the shotgun blocking half of the back seat. When we got to the gite, leaning in a corner by the bathroom were three more shotguns. Wherever we walked, whether on the road or on trails, it was unclear what we had to step over more often: pig poo, the omnipresent native chestnuts, or...shotgun shells. Also, likely in jest, in one of the drives that the locals took us on through the mountains, they told us that when the local police run low on bullets, they come up to the region where we are staying and buy them off the separatists because they're better armed...

And, of course, then there was the time that we got shot at (if you believe Sara) on Christmas Eve. After our transportation hassles on the 23^rd, we finally made it to the village on the 24th, got settled, went to Christmas Eve mass in a nearby village, and shared a terrific dinner with the family. After dinner and before going to bed, Sara and I wanted to take a quick walk to and back from the nearby church, just to stretch our legs and settle our dinners. We got to the church, and were looking down on some sheep grazing nearby, when...shots rang out. Looking up the hill a couple of hundred yards, we saw a guy with a shotgun. He kept shooting. Sara was convinced he was shooting at us, I wasn't, but we both decided to walk calmly but quickly back to the gite anyway. When we got back, we nonchalantly asked the owner why someone might be shooting at/near us. He told us that it was midnight, so now it was Christmas. He told us that at midnight on New Year's Eve, everyone shoots their guns off in the air, “even the women.”

VIGNETTE THREE
Speaking of guns, one day while I was minding my own business, sitting and reading in the “common room” of the gite, Paul-Antoine, the gite's owner and excellent chef, came into the room and said “Hey, American, come out here.” Oh, did I mention he had a shotgun in his hand while he asked me this?

As I (needless to say) walked out the front door, I almost tripped over the bodies of two boars lying just beyond our doorstep. Paul-Antoine said “Hey, American, take this gun, kneel down behind the boars, and we'll take a picture. It will be funny.” There was a brief confusion after Paul-Antoine and the first three hunters standing nearby didn't know how to shoot...a picture...but on Hunter #4, we hit paydirt, and got the photo above.

VIGNETTE FOUR

Having twice refused to go on the boar hunt (that's part of why I got roped into the famous photo), I felt that I couldn't very well say no when another of the townspeople asked me if I'd like to go with a few of the guys down to the mineral baths that gave the town its name ("Les Bains" means "The Baths"). Sara and I had already hiked down to the baths a couple of days previous (they're in a lower half of the town, a couple of miles away), and we hadn't seen much--just the old, abandoned, decaying hotel from the baths' heyday, a concrete dome over the actual spring, and a "huge" spigot spouting the 115 degree water into a long, large stone box that frankly looked a bit like a topless coffin for a giant.

So, frankly, I didn't really understand what going to the baths entailed. Breaking into the old hotel? Climbing into the dome? Did the spring eventually hit the river, and we were going to climb into that? Sara was a bit suspicious of the whole process, so I went alone. In the end, guess what, "the baths" was really the big stone coffin! About six people could fit inside, sitting, and it was terrific. We went at night, so the air was cold (40 degrees), but that made the water feel great. Through the mist thrown off by the water, you could see a truly amazing number of stars. The water smelled a bit sulfurous, but it was rumored to cure virtually everthing, from back pain to skin conditions.

It was so great, Sara actually came along the second nught, and loved every minute of it!

VIGNETTE FIVE
Whenever we travel, Sara gets on my back about looking for “the perfect restaurant.” We'll be in some distant land, it will be mealtime, one or both of us will be getting blood-sugary, and I'll traipse us crosstown in an effort to find a restaurant that was written up in the guidebook/offers a free before-dinner drink/offers a fixed-price multi-course menu/is cheaper/is more authentic. Sadly, despite rumors to the contrary, I'm not a leprechaun, and rarely am I successful in leading Sara to the culinary pot of gold. Fortunately, on our one night in Ajaccio, I did hit the leprecorsican jackpot. We'd struck out with restaurants that were closed Sundays/closed during the tourist off-season/closed for Christmas/too pricy/too empty (a Sara pet peeve), etc., and the fairly intense rain was overwhelming our umbrellas. My faux-cheerful requests for “one more block!” were increasingly met by scowls.

But finally, three blocks beyond our hotel, we stumbled on “U Spuntinu.” When we walked in the door of this hole-in-the-wall, it was honestly like when the stranger walks through the swinging saloon doors in an old Western. Conversations stopped, glasses were frozen mid-sip at lip-level, and the old prospector stops playing the upright piano in the corner. (OK, maybe there was no piano...). By then it was a bit late, so we asked if it was too late to eat (no one else was eating). They said they only had two things, kebabs and “pain bandit.”

When I asked what “pain bandit” was, I was told that it was a special kind of toasted ham and cheese sandwich, and that it was all that Yvan Colonna (a Corsican separatist suspected of killing the highest-ranking mainland French official in 1998 who lived as a fugitive in the Corsican mountains for four years, making him a folk legend). After laughing nervously at the casual but charged mention of this very controversial figure, we ordered one of each item and were “shown” to the one, two-seat table in the entire tiny restaurant. As we felt eyes burning into the backs of our heads, I kept trying to convince myself that the camouflage-clad, mystery-beverage-swilling regulars were likely as afraid of us as we were of them.

Lo and behold, when our food and the two accompanying chestnut beer arrived and we dug into them like we were the ones who had been on the lam in the Corsican countryside, the tension (mostly) melted. There's nothing like graciously loving regional food and drink specialties to get the locals to take a shine to you... Before long, we'd warmed enough to each other to exchange “Do you hate Bush? Good, we do too!” comments, they'd suggested we try the house myrtle digestif (the aforementioned mystery beverage), and, before you knew it, our after-dinner coffees had been comped.

In the end, the sandwich was massive, delicious, and was like nothing we'd ever had before. The kebab was homemade, from three different kinds of meat and with a homemade blend of local Corsican herbs, truly hit the spot. Even the beer was great, and we were thrilled to be offered some of the house digestif.

The meal was inexpensive, nothing fancy, but damned if it wasn't one of our top ten favorite meals we've eaten all year, and an excellent preview of the kind of skepticism-followed-by-warm-welcome that awaited us in Guitera. [by the way, the food photo above wasn't from U Spuntinu, it's from the gite, and it shows our dinner the last night we were there: chestnut flour polenta, figatelli (a famous fresh pork liver sausage), brocciu (a cheese like Ricotta), and a fried egg. It's a traditional Christmas-week meal.)

Well, now that I've updated you on what happened two weeks ago, I can start working on another blog about something that happened over a month ago—my first acting work in the French cinema. More on that soon.

Josh